


England Expects That Every Man Will Do His Duty

by walkwithursus



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amputation, Blood and Gore, Coma, Consent Issues, Drinking, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, Dysentery, Espionage, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Gore, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Graphic Description, Graphic Wound Descriptions, Head Injury, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Medicine, Mentions of Violence, Pirates, Religious Guilt, Robbery, Secret Identity, Swearing, The Royal Navy, sparrington - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-03-31 19:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13981338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/pseuds/walkwithursus
Summary: “Do you know what love is? I'll tell you: it is whatever you can still betray.”― John le Carré, The Looking Glass WarAfter Jack Sparrow's escape from the gallows, James Norrington is demoted and turned spy for the crown. Tasked with providing information on piracy in the Caribbean, Norrington signs on to crew the Black Pearl. Without his wig and naval uniform, the former Commodore goes unrecognized by Sparrow and his men, but soon enough attracts Jack's attention on his own merit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set after CotBP and ignores all movies thereafter.

James Norrington was no stranger to espionage. 

As a young man and a new sailor, the Navy had tasked him with compiling notes on the operations of foreign dignitaries who sought passage to and from England. At eighteen, he had found the task important and exhilarating. As a grown man, Norrington was grudgingly grateful. If it weren't for his duplicity in use, James imagined that his demotion would have been career ending. He was lucky to have received reassignment, no matter the role. 

Though make no mistake, it certainly was a demotion. There was no title for this position, no formality. His existence was to be a closely guarded secret, and that meant, most significantly, the loss of his uniform. James liked to imagine that without the powdered wig and Naval livery he was unrecognizable, but there were those in Port Royal who still wished the former commodore a good morning as he passed them on the docks. 

This surprised James. In the decade and a half since he'd joined the Navy, he'd become accustomed to seeing himself a certain way for better or worse, and to have that exterior stripped away left him initially unnerved. Back to the clothing of a plain gentleman, and then to the clothing of a poor sailor as he disguised himself on board a merchant ship and bid Port Royal farewell in search of his target. 

In time James came to recognize the darker hair in the water's reflection, the same loose brown curls from his youth, and made his peace with their existence. He permitted his beard to grow in for what protection it offered from the sun and wind, while hard labor tanned his skin and made him stronger, wilder, less Navy and more James, though that was not the name he gave to the captains with whom he set sail. 

It was a year before he tracked the Pearl down, his mission's main objective. A year of cat and mouse, of following her trail across the Caribbean always a step behind, a sunrise too late to join her crew. It was nothing short of a miracle, a moment heaven-sent when at long last he saw her bobbing in the water off the coast of Nicaragua, and in a haze of euphoria James felt that perhaps he finally understood Jack Sparrow's devotion to her. 

Sparrow did not recognize him when they met as captain and seaman. James saw it immediately, the way his eyes slid over his face as though he were no one, another anonymous sailor in the crowd. James signed on to crew the Black Pearl after three-hundred and eighty days of searching. From there they swung around the tip of South America and James was exposed firsthand to the malevolence, the depravity of piracy. The transition from merchant vessels to the Pearl was a difficult one, but he bore it head down and shoulders up, and if he stood back as the others slaughtered the innocent no one noticed, or at least no one said anything to him. 

The ship docked every few weeks or whenever supplies ran low, and it was then, as the crew debauched themselves in whorehouses and taverns, that James Norrington compiled his notes on the ship’s progress and sent them off to Port Royal. 

Initially he wavered over the precise details to include in his reports, sending every scrap of information that could possibly be of use. But as months passed James learned what mattered, why it wasn’t significant that they had robbed yet another pleasure craft or changed course for the third time in a fortnight. By the time his six month mark on board the Pearl rolled around, he'd pared it down to the essentials; a record of offenses carried out against the crown, a list of all known pirate ships in whatever area they happened to sail, and Jack Sparrow’s routes and plans, predicted to the best of James’ ability. 

James was not close with the captain. 

He had little interest in fraternizing with pirates beyond the minimum required to fulfill his duty, and it seemed important to maintain a certain distance, lest Sparrow recognize something in his face or come to suspect his motivation for staying on board the Pearl for so long. Since taking up with the ship he’d gained a reputation for speaking little, unable to fully mask the London undercurrent to his words, and was mostly ignored by the other crew members and completely ignored by Jack himself. This suited him fine. It was easier to assemble information when he went unnoticed. 

By the time July rolled around James had been with the Pearl for eight months. They dropped anchor in Grenada at dawn, and within hours James was the only man left on board. Their stay was not to be long. Sparrow had given orders to return by sunset, leaving less time than usual for him to write and send out his reports. James had deemed it safer months ago to write them the day of rather than risk keeping them on his person, and so he settled down to scribble out the message behind a crate, one that kept him shielded from view of the dock below. 

“Buss my cheeks. So, you can write, and presumably _read,_ but you can’t talk.”

At the familiar, lilting tone James froze, watching with muted horror as the ink from the nib blotched wetly into the yellow parchment spread across his thigh. He pulled it back quickly, too quick, and the next second the pen had slipped from his hands and rolled away across the planks. James forced his body to turn slowly, coolly toward the captain, who picked it up and held it to his face. 

“Nice pen,” Sparrow commented, as he closed the distance between them and offered it back. James took it with a curt nod, and turned his chin resolutely down toward his paper, praying that the nonverbal cue would be enough to end the conversation. 

When James didn’t respond Sparrow tutted and circled around the crate, hopping onto it so that his legs dangled over the side. A shadow fell across James’ notes as the captain peered over his shoulder, and James fought the urge to conceal the paper. Unless he intended to swallow the message or drop it overboard there was little he could do to hide it now, and to do so would only draw unwanted suspicion. 

“You writin’ a book, mate?” Sparrow asked, and after a second of hesitation James shook his head no. “A letter?” No again. “Well, what then? C’mon, let’s have a look.”

Sparrow’s arm darted down and snatched the paper out of his hands before James could even offer it. James decided quickly that it would not do to stand up, and so he shifted quickly across the deck to face him, watching as the kohl blackened eyes skimmed back and forth across the page. 

Sparrow began to read out loud:

 _“Aucun bateau rencontré sur le voyage entre Tortuga et la Grenade.”_ A snort. “What is this, a poem? Guess I shoulda known. Big bloke like you’s bound to have a sensitive side.”

James felt his throat constrict. He had thought it safe to write in French, since surely few pirates could speak it, let alone read it, and yet here he sat corrected. 

“You speak French?” James asked hoarsely, and after a second’s delay tacked on, “Captain?” The title never felt quite right on his tongue addressing Sparrow, but the undue respect was a small price to pay to remain onboard the ship. 

“No,” Jack said, flashing a crooked smile. “Just read it.” James couldn’t tell whether he was meant to believe this or not, and so he stared until the captain pressed the paper back into his hands. “Relax, I’m not goin’ to keep it.”

Feeling obligated, James gave a mechanical nod of thanks and made no move to shield the paper. There was nothing to hide, so long as he didn’t look as though there was anything worth hiding. 

“I suggest you keep practicing,” Sparrow advised, as he unscrewed the cap on his hip flask. “You’re a far cry from Homer, but with a little effort I think you could really go places. Not important places, of course, but y’know. Find the right wench to read it to and you might just end up in her bed.” He took a long pull on the flask and stared out over the sea. James forced himself to do the same, tearing his eyes from the captain’s face with effort to watch the waves ripple in the distance. The water was choppy, more grey than blue, and the clouds overhead appeared as though at any moment they might open up to pour on the little island below. 

After a few minutes, during which James felt he might keel over dead of nerves, Sparrow launched himself off the crate. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” he said as he swaggered away, leaving James to ruminate over every facet of the encounter. 

_So, lemme get this straight. You can write, and presumably **read,** but you can’t talk._

So he hadn’t escaped Sparrow’s attention after all. 

As soon as the captain was out of sight James devoured the contents of his notes, searching for anything that could have given his position as spy onboard the ship away. 

God was good. The voyage between their last port and Grenada had been uneventful, and he had reported as much. The captain’s arrival had interrupted him just as he’d begun to posit over their potential next move, so the letter was little more than a recount of the trip such as it had been. To the outside reader it could have been meant for anyone; a lover, a parent, a friend. 

Of course, it was intended for the British Naval fort in Port Royal, but so far as James could tell Sparrow remained none the wiser.

After this event, James took to writing his letters off ship. Truly he’d thought it the safest place to write them at first, seeing as the majority of the crew took to land as soon as they’d docked. But he could not afford to be caught again, so from then on James devised a code in which to write, and was exceedingly careful to phrase his messages in veiled terms. He found secluded corners in empty pubs and composed his letters with such haste that the penmanship suffered, but they accomplished the job, and that was the point. 

The captain seemed to keep no closer eye on him than he had before, and James had to imagine that if he did suspect anything Jack was playing his cards close to his chest. James received his orders through Gibbs or Anamaria, and apart from the occasional half-planned speech or bout of drunken raving Jack rarely addressed the crew directly. As time passed James gradually put the incident out of his mind, convinced that if Sparrow had found him out that day on the deck and planned to toss him portside he'd have done so long ago. 

The next time Sparrow tracked him down it was three months since their conversation aboard the Pearl. James had long since delivered his letter to the postman of the Trinidadian village where they'd docked for refitting and had retired with a drink to the tavern of _The Four Crows._

Only a handful of crew members from the Pearl were in this particular pub, so the last person he’d expected to come waltzing through the door was the captain himself. As soon as Sparrow saw his empty table he started to approach, though his path was meandering and indirect. As he watched the advance James felt his fingers twitch unbidden toward the hilt of his sword. No matter how the past few months might have affected him, years of experience ingrained that when a pirate caught you dead in the eye and made for you, a smart man drew his weapon. 

Instead James took a disciplined drink, and waited until the captain had collapsed into the chair opposite him to lower it. 

“Evening.” Jack said, perfectly pleasant. James acknowledged the greeting with a dip of his head and squared his shoulders back. Around the pub a few heads had turned to watch the exchange. 

Jack flagged down the tavern wench. “Soup of the day, my love, and another round for my friend and I. What are we drinking?” 

“Ale,” James croaked.

“Ale, then, if you’d be so kind.” Sparrow gave her a pat on the arse, and she swatted at his hand before brisking off. James watched her go, aware of Jack’s eyes on his face. “Nice, isn’t she?” Jack murmured, before leaning across the table to whisper. “Been there, mate. Word of advice? Not worth it.” 

James jerked his head in acknowledgement as Sparrow sat back and clapped his hands together. 

“So! Tell me. What’s your name, sailor?”

Far be it for Jack Sparrow to remember the name of every deckhand on board his ship, but James felt slighted nonetheless as he recounted his false name, the one he’d given his first day on board the Black Pearl. 

“Noah.”

“Ah. Noah. Nothing like a good biblical name,” Jack said, as he kicked his feet up onto the table. James reached out in time to steady his tankard before it could be knocked to the floor. “Great flood, great big boat. Chosen by God to sail the seas, rescuing only the deserving. S'that why you became a sailor?”

The story of Noah and the Ark had not crossed his mind when he’d picked the name at random. James thought about it now and tried to determine if there were any symbolism in it that could be applied to his own life. He came up short and so shook his head. 

“Pity,” Jack said. “Shoulda just said yes, mate. Makes for a better story that way.” 

“I’m not much of a storyteller,” James said simply, and he took a draught of his ale. 

“Not much of a conversationalist either,” Jack pointed out, and James inclined his head as if to say _‘So?’_

The wench returned with their drinks and a bowl of cruddy stew. James quickly quaffed the last of his first mug so that she might carry it away with her, while Jack took one sip of the muddy brown liquid and pulled a face, turning instead toward the bowl. There was a lull of silence between them as James contemplated the chewing pirate and his ravenous appetite. 

“Tell me, Captain Sparrow. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” James asked at last, dawdling over the phrase and the right way to say it. Would a deckhand speak that way, or was that the Navy in him talking? Did it matter, when the pirate was slurping so loudly he couldn’t possibly have heard him anyway? 

“Does a man need a reason to enjoy a meal with his crew?” Jack asked around a bursting mouthful of food. James didn’t dare dignify such behavior with a response, and instead took a lengthy sip of ale. Once Jack had swallowed he spoke again, and there was a sporting glimmer in his eye. “Forgive me my curiosity, mate, but I just haven’t been able to put that poem of yours outta me mind. Thought I might trouble you for a re-read.” 

James bared his teeth. For months he’d been both dreading and anticipating this conversation. Not for the first time he thought back to what that letter had said and how the captain had responded to it, desperately raking his memory for any indication that Sparrow knew more than he let on. “I take it the words resonated with you, then?” James asked coolly. 

“Hardly,” Sparrow snorted, shoveling another scoop of stew into his gaping maw. “Can’t even remember what it said.”

James rubbed his chin in thought. “And yet, somehow you can’t put it out of your mind,” James reminded him. “So what is the truth?”

“The truth,” Jack said between swallows, “is that you don’t strike me as a Frenchman.”

James quirked an eyebrow. Sparrow remembered the language of the letter, which was certainly something. “Perhaps because I’m not.” 

Jack squinted at him and took a long gulp of ale to clear his mouth. “Really?” He asked, once he’d replaced the tankard on the table. “So then tell me, Noah. How did it come to pass that a poor sailor such as yourself learned to speak French?”

James cricked his neck from side to side and forced his features into a mask of apparent boredom. “How is it that you speak Spanish, or Creole, Captain?” He countered disinterestedly. “Practice.” 

“Aha!” said Sparrow, sitting forward quickly in his chair. “You see, that’s the difference. I can speak ‘em, surely, but hand me a Spanish pen and paper and I couldn’t even write me own ship’s name.” 

James’ lips twitched. “Would it not still be _The Black Pearl?_ ” 

The captain puffed up, setting down his spoon. “Don’t get smart with me, lad. I let you on my ship, I can damn well take you off it,” he warned. James raised his hands in a gesture of peace and bit his tongue to keep the contemptuous smile from cracking his mask. 

“My apologies, Captain. I meant no offense.” 

Sparrow gave him a calculated look before deflating like a tattered sail, as though the apology were a disappointment. The roguish glint disappeared from the soot black eyes, and James watched as he picked up the bowl and tipped its contents into his mouth like a sulking child. 

“Y’know, it didn’t rhyme,” Jack continued after he’d thrust the empty bowl back onto the table. “Pretty sure it’s supposed to rhyme.”

*

The next time they saw each other James was half-drowned in ale at the bar of an empty tavern. 

For the first time since he’d took up post on Sparrow’s ship he’d received a response from Port Royal, a letter from Governor Swann. In it he accredited the recent capture of several pirates to James’ position as spy on board the Pearl. He would be making a recommendation to one of James’ superior officers for immediate reassignment, and given that Rear-Admiral Thomas had announced his retirement to England, Swann had put forth former-Commodore Norrington as a potential successor. James had been elated until the very end of the letter, where Swann had outlined a more personal paragraph. 

_I will be taking leave of Port Royal come September to be with Elizabeth in London, as she recovers from the birth of her first child. Send word in advance if you will be returning during my absence so that I might leave a written recommendation in my stead._

_Regards,_

_Gov. Weatherby Swann_

The birth of Elizabeth’s first child. 

Could it really have been so long since that day outside the gallows? 

By his count it was nigh on two years. Plenty of time for a marriage ceremony, a honeymoon, and a baby. Nevertheless it was unsettling to imagine the young Miss Swann he had known wed and pregnant -- quite pregnant, if she were due in September as the letter suggested. James couldn’t help but wonder bitterly if the child belonged to Turner, or if Elizabeth had broken off yet another engagement. 

As soon as he thought it James felt guilty. 

Despite everything, he bore Elizabeth no ill will. A marriage of obligation had never been his desire, and as a young man he’d felt blessed to have found in Elizabeth a friend and companion, someone with whom he hoped to one day share his life. It was what he’d always wanted for himself, what his treacherous bleeding heart had always wanted, a love-marriage. But he could no more force Elizabeth to love him than he could force himself not to love her, and so he had grudgingly relinquished her into the blacksmith’s hands and come away empty. Quite empty.

Beneath the brocade had beat a heart, not a watch, though James could only imagine how much easier a watch would have been to mend. 

Since that time, James had tried very hard not to dwell over what-ifs. There was no happiness to be found in imagining what his life might have been if circumstances had been different. Yet a small voice would not let him forget that it could have been him, _should_ have been him, headed to London to await the birth of his first child by Elizabeth, his lady wife. 

That path belonged to Turner now. 

James thought he’d resigned himself to it long ago, and was more than a little disappointed to find that part of him still clung to such a foolish dream. The admiralship was lost to him, the opportunity to fill the role of husband and father, gone. What was left of James’ life was the sea, and island after island that stunk of shit and sex and sickness. And though he was sailing again, out on the water and under the blood-orange caress of the Caribbean sun, it was marred by the Pearl’s criminal inclinations, by the stolen treasure they brought aboard by the chestful. Half a pirate himself, James was unworthy to walk on the same side of the street as a woman such as Elizabeth, let alone lead her by the arm. 

He had been sitting in place for hours now, unable to conjure up the nerve to burn the infernal letter and be done with it. James pounded drink after drink, searching for strength and courage, but at the bottom of each mug found naught but sorrow and profound emptiness.

As though determined to prove to him that the night could, in fact, get worse, Jack Sparrow entered the pub alone and caught sight of him. Quickly, James crushed the note into the pocket of his breeches and buried his face in his forearms, hoping that he’d been quick enough that the captain had not truly noticed him. He had no such luck. Jack’s boots slapped across the floorboards until they paused beside his table, and James felt his stomach pool with dread. _Move along. For the love of God, move along._

Sparrow dropped into the seat across from him, and James uttered a curse into his folded arms. If the letter had reminded him of his loss, it was nothing compared to the living proof that shared his table. Though he had long since accepted responsibility for his circumstances, the pirate was a blatant reminder of James’ failures, the reason for his demotion, and a petulant part of him could never fully forgive the man for ever entering his life. Certainly James had made the choices that had brought him to this point, but all the same, everything had begun to unravel the moment Jack set foot in Port Royal. 

“You’re a bit of a mess,” Jack drawled. 

James caught the sound of wood scraping on wood as his tankard was dragged to the other end of the table. He raised his head and stared beadily at the man opposite.

“Are you going to pay me back for that?” James asked, as the last mouthfuls of his ale disappeared down the pirate’s throat. 

Jack smacked his lips and pushed the empty cup back toward him. “There weren’t much left.”

James scowled. What were his options, now that Sparrow had commandeered his table? Did he stay and fulfill his role as Noah, deckhand and apparent drunk? Or did he leave and draw further attention to himself as the one sailor on board the Pearl who wasn’t interested in sharing a pint with the captain?

After a minute of contemplation James steeled his resolve and waved for another round. One drink with the captain, a quick one, and he could take his leave with his reputation in tact.

“Good man,” Jack said brightly, apparently glad to have him for the next five minutes. The drinks came and James tried to pace himself, aware that he was approaching double digits and the coin in his pocket was perilously low.

Sparrow talked a while and James paid cursory attention, waiting for pauses and inflections in his speech that warranted response, at which point he’d nod or shrug or grunt, whichever seemed most appropriate. If Jack was used to more interesting conversation partners he did not let on, and part of James doubted a ship full of drunken degenerates could offer much more than this anyway. 

Jack said something about Barbados, and James’ eyes slid back into focus. 

“What about Barbados?” He asked quickly, scrubbing a hand over his face to wake up.

Jack shrugged. “Just that I figure the weather will be warmer once we get there. Usually is this time of year.”

James could have hit him. 

Barbados. The dirty bastard had talked of nothing but St. Vincent for weeks, and so naturally that was the course James had included in his report. 

“Something wrong?” Sparrow asked innocently, and James grimaced. Something most certainly was wrong, but it was nothing that couldn’t be rectified if immediate action were taken. 

“I’ve got to piss,” James growled, and he pushed up from the table and staggered out of the pub before the captain could respond. The night air was cool and wet, and it soaked into his clothes, an unavoidable effect of the perma-damp Caribbean winter. James spent a few extra minutes collecting himself in the side street after he’d emptied his bladder, formulating an exit strategy. 

The crew wasn’t due back until dawn, plenty of time to send off another message. Unfortunately the postman was likely asleep at this late hour, and so James would have to risk sliding it under the door. Not exactly his first choice, but Sparrow hadn’t left him a lot of options.

Sparrow. Somewhere in the back of James’ mind he wondered if this were not a set-up. Jack was stupid, but not unintelligent. This entire Barbados ordeal could be a ploy to trick James into leaking the destination only he would know, thereby exposing his true loyalties. The moment the ensign of the Royal Navy appeared on the horizon James would be flogged, tied and dumped into the ocean. 

_No._

He was overthinking it, and greatly overestimating Jack Sparrow, whose only real advantage in life was an absurd amount of good luck. The captain knew nothing, of that James was certain. So he would go back inside and stand at the table -- not sit, because sitting implied he meant to stay for longer. And as he stood he would pay for the drinks, and bid the captain a short, firm farewell so as to avoid an inescapable conversation. He would deliver a message to the postman detailing their apparent course, heavily coded and nigh on indecipherable, and then he would return to the Pearl and await their departure. 

A simple but effective plan, ruined the moment he set foot back inside the pub.

Sparrow was immediately on his right, holding the front door open with one bejeweled hand so that it would not shut behind him. 

“Ready to go?” Jack asked rhetorically, before slipping out into the night. James blinked in surprise as the door closed on his face, and he spared the interior of the tavern a last look of longing before wrenching it open and following automatically.

Sparrow had already begun walking along the path toward the docks. James lengthened his stride to catch up with him, and swore as the toe of his boot caught on a loose rock. Such a thing would never have happened on the cobbled streets of London. “Where exactly are we going?” 

Jack looked at him over his shoulder as though it were obvious. “To get some better drinks, mate.”

The postman lived in the opposite direction. James slowed just long enough to stare helplessly the way they’d come before accepting his fate and falling into step behind the pirate. Within minutes they’d climbed on board the Pearl and stood outside the captain’s cabin. James should have guessed that the best alcohol in port would be on board the ship.

“Go on,” Jack said as he held the door for him, motioning for James to enter first. James hesitated and stared dubiously between the captain and the inside of the room. It was dark, lit by a single lantern somewhere far within, but it was less the darkness and more the idea of turning his back on a pirate that set his teeth on edge and stayed his step. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Jack said after a minute, seeming to guess his thoughts, and he pushed James over the threshold.

The world spun, and James caught himself on the edge of a table before he could fall. 

“Not much of a drinker, are you?” Sparrow asked, as he crossed the room to slouch over his desk. He fiddled with a lantern until the room was bathed in golden light. 

James didn’t answer right away as he took in the interior of the captain’s quarters. It was like standing in the lair of a dragon, surrounded on all sides by beautiful things; trinkets, furniture, jewelry, weapons, heaped into piles and towering on every surface. The whole room glittered, and James had to squint to avoid harming his eyes. At last he turned his attention to the table in front of him and picked up a silver hand mirror.

“Ah, be careful with that,” Jack cautioned from behind the desk. He poured two fingers of rum from his own flask into a glass and brought it to James, who accepted it but did not drink.

“C’mon, drink. Down the hatch.” He commanded, and after a second of contemplation James obeyed, tossing the liquor as far down the back of his throat as he could. “Better than the swill in town, aye?” 

James supposed he was right, but he’d never had the taste for rum. He compromised with a shrug that seemed to satisfy Sparrow, who took a swig straight from the flask and licked his lips. 

“Why am I here?” James asked at last, as he replaced the mirror and glass upon the table. 

“Dunno. Why are you here?” Jack answered cryptically. When James failed to reply he elaborated, and there was a tinge of irritation to his tone, as though he were explaining something obvious to someone very stupid. “Just thought you could use some company, mate. You know, someone to make sure you don’t choke on your own vomit after you’ve cast up your accounts and passed out. Which, judging by the looks of you, should be any second now.” 

As if on cue, James’ knees buckled. He threw out a hand to catch himself on the trinket table and succeeded in knocking over the glass as he started to collapse. “Steady!” James heard Jack shout as his vision swam, and the next moment he was staring at the wood planks of the ceiling overhead. 

An urgent voice in the back of his mind was telling him to stand up. It wasn’t safe to be vulnerable here, blackout drunk and lying on his back in the private quarters of a pirate captain. James sat up and reached automatically for the back of his head, where a swollen lump was beginning to form. 

“Well, aren’t you the short-heeled lass. You alright?” Sparrow asked, though he sounded altogether unconcerned. He was picking up the broken pieces of the rum glass and replacing them on the table’s edge. James inhaled through his nose and closed his eyes before replying. 

“Fine.” 

He wasn’t, really. But he was ready to leave, now, before things could get any worse, and so he tried to climb back to his feet even as a hand held his shoulder firmly down. 

“Nuh uh. You’re not goin’ anywhere.” Sparrow said firmly, and when James struggled he continued. “It’s an embarrassing death, dying in your sleep. I’m tryin’ to spare you.” 

“I’ll take my chances,” James grit out as he wrenched free of the captain’s grasp. 

Jack caught his arms and held them fast. “No you won’t,” he insisted. 

Within moments Sparrow had dragged him to his feet and over to the mattress in the corner. James sagged half-willingly on the edge of it and placed a hand over his eyes to block out the spinning room.

“You’re worse off than I thought,” Jack said, and James could hear the sound of his labored breathing, undoubtedly from lugging his weight across the cabin. “Not to worry, though. I’ve got just the thing.”

For a minute there was peace as Sparrow supposedly searched about the room. James waited for his footsteps to approach before raising his head again. 

“Drink.” Sparrow said, and this time James obeyed quickly after accepting the proffered glass. He gagged.

“ _It’s just more rum,_ ” he choked out.

Jack looked insulted. “Not just rum. It’s a recipe. Turmeric, honey, bit of Johnny-jump-up...”

“It’s disgusting,” James said, and the captain laughed.

“It is. But it’ll sort you out.” 

“I don’t need sorting out.” James thrust the glass back toward Sparrow, who took it delicately. “What I need is a good night’s sleep. So if you’ll excuse me.” James made to stand.

Jack hissed out a breath, as though James were really not going to like the next words out of his mouth. “‘Fraid I can’t let you do that, mate. You banged that pretty little head of yours awful hard back there. Fall asleep now and you might not be waking up.”

James reached again for the back of his head and felt the tender lump just below the crown of his skull. Sparrow was right, of course. James had seen it before in the Navy, men who died in their sleep after a seemingly innocent head injury. “So, what then? Do you intend to keep me awake all night?” He asked skeptically.

James saw gold in the pirate’s answering grin. “Sure do,” Jack said, as though it would be a pleasure to do so. He plopped down next to James on the side of the bed and his grin widened. “By any means necessary.” 

Sparrow’s knee bumped against the side of James’ thigh, and he flinched in surprise at the contact. The movement seemed at first deliberate, suggestive, but he was three sheets to the wind and could therefore afford to forgive himself if his instincts were less than perfect. James was about to shrug the movement off as an accident when he caught sight of Sparrow’s expression. 

He knew that look. The dark, singular depravity of it, more beast than man. He’d seen it before on countless sailors during long voyages in his Navy days, he’d seen it on sailors aboard the Pearl, but never had he thought to see it on Jack’s face, and never directed toward himself. James felt a sickening twist in his gut as he uttered through clenched teeth, “What exactly are you implying, Captain?” 

“Nothin’,” Sparrow said, as his leg again wandered closer toward James’. This time he left it so that their thighs stayed touching. “Nothin’ you wouldn’t like, anyway.”

James blinked. Though he considered himself an intelligent man, innuendo had never been his forte, and though he certainly wasn’t oblivious to an advance it was hard to tell if that’s what this truly was. After all, this was Jack Sparrow, and he was -- had been -- Commodore Norrington of the Royal Fleet, pirate hunter, force to be reckoned with. Such a thing just wasn’t plausible, and yet when he looked down he saw their legs still pervertedly together. James jerked his away the next instant. “I’m afraid I don’t quite catch your meaning,” he said tightly. 

“Oh, I think you do, Noah. Surely you know what it is to be a man after a bit of companionship,” Sparrow said, and James squirmed at the use of his false name, duly reminded of his position as spy onboard the ship. 

Therein lie the crux of the issue; Sparrow had no idea who he was really speaking to, couldn’t possibly know his proposition was directed toward an enemy, a servant of the crown sworn to dispatch pirates by the dozen. From Jack’s perspective he was just another drunk deckhand, someone he could probably convince to share his bed with a little persuasion. 

There was a sudden warmth and pressure on his shoulder, and James fought the urge to shrug out from under Sparrow’s wandering hand. He couldn’t think rationally about this. Not now, in the middle of the night with a blossoming headache and a week’s worth of alcohol in his churning stomach. He knew what he would do in this instance as James, as Commodore Norrington -- strike the bastard down and run him through, but he wasn’t James, was he? Not on this ship, not to Sparrow. And so he was forced to ask himself what would _Noah_ do? Did he have the leverage to say no to the captain? Would he want to?

 _Yes,_ said a voice in the back of his head. _Yes, damn it, draw your sword. Say no._

“There are whores in town, Captain, so forgive me if I’m not particularly sensitive to your plight,” James ground out mercilessly. Undeterred, the pirate slid closer to him until he was nothing more than a lush voice beside his ear:

“If I’d wanted a whore, I’d’ve had a whore.” 

James’ heart gave a traitorous squeeze, and for a wild, drunken moment he pictured himself submitting to the impulse. It was a foreign temptation, one he’d never formally entertained before now, but the warm breath against his ear had called it to the forefront of his mind, and James found himself considering abstractly what it might feel like to kiss another man, to lie with him, to live in sin for one night.

Before he could make a decision Sparrow was on him, and James was trying to work a tongue out of his mouth. He hadn’t readied himself for this, hadn’t taken a breath first, and there were spots in his vision as Jack’s fingers squeezed the knot on the back of his head.

“Wait -- “ James choked out, tearing his head to the side. 

“What for?” Jack groaned, and before James could think of a response he’d crushed their mouths together again.

It had been years since someone had last kissed him. James could feel it in his bones, in the way they both protested and yearned for the contact Jack was offering. But he hardly paid his body any mind, concentrating instead on the rapid-fire thoughts ricocheting like bullets around the inside of his skull, trying in vain to rationalize what was happening.

This was fine, he thought quickly. It was the right thing to do as Sparrow’s deckhand, as Noah, and he was so drunk he probably wouldn’t remember anything in the morning anyway. Already the entire evening was turning into a foggy blur, to the point where he could hardly recall how he’d come to be here in the first place. Odds were whatever happened between them would be forgotten as well, nothing more than a bad dream poorly recalled.

Lost in thought, James barely registered the automatic movement of his lips against Jack’s, though his own meager efforts to sustain the kiss were pitiful in comparison. Jack’s mouth was urgent, insistent, as though he realized James was adrift and was trying desperately to ground him in the moment. His hands were on James’ face, cupping, stroking, and he was not nearly so rough as James might have expected. He felt a strange sort of gratitude for that, for the consideration, and yet at the same time experienced a sharp pang of annoyance, knowing how much easier it would be to allow Sparrow to manhandle him through the entire ordeal. 

Just as James thought this, Sparrow reached out and firmly grasped his hand, a surprisingly intimate gesture until he realized Jack’s intention for it. 

James mentally recited half a dozen Hail Mary’s as Sparrow guided his hand over the front of his trousers. James didn’t want to acknowledge that, didn’t want to _feel_ that, but his fingers were dead weight against the pirate’s lap, and after a few seconds of nothing Jack ground his hand down and James’ mind went blank. 

He was on his back now. He could feel the stiff mattress pressing against the knot on his head, and the tickle of one of Sparrow’s beaded locks against his cheek. It felt good to lay down. He was so tired at this point that he hardly noticed the kiss anymore, or the guided motion of his hand. It wasn’t until the laces of his own breeches started to loosen that his eyes reopened, and James felt his pulse quicken with fear as Jack’s hand disappeared down their front. The instant he felt the man’s touch James cringed, and then it was gone, and so was the weight of Jack’s body on top of him. 

“Alright, that’s enough,” said Sparrow, and his voice was tight and more controlled than James would have thought possible. 

“I -- what?” James asked, breath hitching as he propped himself up on his elbows. His lips felt raw, abused, undoubtedly from the bristles of Jack’s beard. 

Jack was looking at him, and there was a bitter downturn to his reddened mouth. “First I thought you were just bad at this, but you’re clearly not interested,” Jack said, and he stood up and stalked toward the opposite end of the room, leaving James to gape after him. 

“I don’t understand,” James said, as he wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He half expected to see blood when he looked at it, but there was none, just a stripe of glistening saliva on the white fabric. Somehow that was worse. It existed as evidence that the kiss had been genuine, free of violence. Just a kiss. James looked away from it in disgust. 

The captain gave him a pitying look. “Understand? Listen, mate, that was -- without a doubt -- the softest cock I’ve ever felt in me life. Now, obviously I’m not above seducing a sailor what’s been loaded to the gunwall, but I at least like a little bit of reciprocation.” 

“I am -- “ James sat up quickly. “Reciprocating.” His brain was finally catching up with the situation, and for the first time that night he could see it clearly for what it was -- an opportunity. An unpleasant one, certainly, but an opportunity nonetheless. Since coming on board the Black Pearl he’d wagered that staying out of Sparrow’s way would be the best method to procure information. He’d never even considered the conversations -- the _documents_ he’d be privy to if he were to get close to the captain. And now that he had the chance, it was slipping through his fingers. “You had it right the first time. I’m not good at this” James said. 

Sparrow’s answer was shrewd. “No. I don’t believe that.”

“Believe it,” James insisted as he stood up from the bed. The room rocked around him, but he kept Jack in focus as he continued. “It’s been a long time since… For God’s sake, man, I can’t even remember the last time a man has propositioned me.” The words tumbled honestly from his mouth, and humiliating though they were, James had a feeling Jack would know if he were to lie. 

James thought he saw the slightest twitch in Jack’s dour expression. “Probably ‘cause you’re so big, mate. People take one look at you and don’t think it’s worth the black eye.” 

“But not you?” James challenged, raising a skeptical brow. 

Sparrow appraised him for a moment, then took a step back toward the bed, the picture of nonchalance. “You can’t very well punch your captain,” he said, and James felt that if he were capable of smiling at that moment he might have. 

“True enough.”

Jack crept slowly closer and was now less than a yard away. James waited restlessly for the final step, trying to predict at which angle Sparrow would approach him, but it soon became clear that James was expected to close the last of the distance. The space stretched like a chasm between them, but in one brave motion James conquered it and brought their boots toe-to-toe. Jack nodded smugly, as though he’d known all along that James would yield to his advance, and James felt the color rise to his face.

“Don’t be shy,” Jack said, spreading his arms wide in invitation. James held his tongue, and with an air of getting the worst over with slid his fingers up the arms of the captain’s jacket. Jack sighed in approval and let his eyes slip closed, a terribly intimate gesture that was not lost on James. His heart hammered pathetically as he touched the rough material of the greatcoat, up the forearms and into the crooks of his elbows. James wavered over Jack’s shoulders, uncertain whether to rest his hands there, before ultimately allowing them to drop back to his sides as fists.

“Is that it?” Jack asked, and his eyes were wicked, mocking. 

James grimaced, and perhaps to avoid touching the pirate he removed his own shirt and threw it to the floor. “You’ll have to show me what you want,” he commanded, and Jack snickered, dragging his eyes hungrily down the skin of James’ naked torso. 

“You’re a lot hairier than I thought you’d be,” Jack said, and James scowled, half tempted to pick the shirt back up and pull it on.

“Was this your intention all along? To mock me?” 

“No, mate. Just stating the facts,” Jack said, and he ran his blunt fingers down the furred expanse of James’ stomach, pausing just above his trousers. He unbuckled James’ sword belt and tossed it to the floor. “Won’t be needing that.”

James narrowed his eyes, and the next instant he relieved Jack of the same burden. The pirate’s sword and pistol clattered to the floor at their feet. “Nor will you,” James returned grimly.

The captain’s answering smile was dangerous. “There’s more where that came from,” he hinted, and James withered a moment before steadying his resolve. With militant severity he took to stripping Jack’s coat and shirt, and was rewarded with a visceral memory of their first handshake, when he’d torn back the pirate’s sleeve to reveal the branded P on his forearm. He could see it again now, a shiny pink against the nut brown of his skin, and above that an impressive dagger strapped to the pirate’s tattooed bicep. He unfastened it and tossed it across the room. 

“Boots,” James ordered, and Sparrow made a spectacle of kicking them off. “Pants.”

“How about I let you remove those, sailor?” Jack goaded. James hesitated only so long as it took him to take a knee, at which point he tore the breeches perfunctorily down Jack’s spindly legs. He stepped out of them, and James grasped him at the knee and removed a smaller, shorter blade from his ankle. Jack smirked down at him with crossed arms. “Satisfied?”

“Something like that,” James muttered, as he pushed himself to a standing position. He’d barely regained his feet before they were swept out from under him by a strong blow to the chest.

Jack had him pinned to the bed, hands on either arm. “Now, let’s see what you’ve got on, shall we?” he murmured. James lay very still, trying to bring the captain’s leering face back into focus. 

“I’m unarmed,” he protested. Jack ignored him and slithered down the bed, stripping what little clothing remained to him, boots then socks then trousers.

“You weren’t lying,” Jack said in surprise. James nodded up at him incredulously before noticing Jack’s line of sight. Even sans weapons it felt dangerous to lie exposed to the pirate, naked as the day he was born, but there was no such thing as modesty at sea and so James resisted the urge to cover himself and instead focused on sitting up. Sparrow pushed him back down and moved so that he was kneeling between James’ legs. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” Jack said, and his hard fingers dragged five lines from James’ chest to his groin. James looked quickly away as Jack touched him, an experimental nudge that flexed the muscles in his stomach, and his cheeks burned with humiliation. He half expected the pirate to lord over him at length, to torment him with feather-light touches and cruel comments, and was therefore stunned when a warm hand wrapped firmly around his stiffening prick and stroked. 

It was as though every nerve in his body seized at once. The pirate’s hands were calloused and rough on his sensitive flesh, but undoubtedly practiced, and James had to grind his teeth to keep from making a sound. He dared not give Jack the satisfaction of his voice, and the wooden walls were not thick. The last thing he wanted was to leave the captain’s cabin having moaned like a woman, not when other sailors were potentially on board. 

“Open your eyes.” Sparrow ordered, and James couldn’t remember having closed them. He slitted them unwillingly and saw the pirate hovered over him, the muscles of one arm drawn taut as he supported the weight of his body. Jack’s chest was blackened with ink, tanned to an even leather-brown, and through the dark hair of his chest James could just make out the glint of a gold hoop pierced through his nipple. There was no mistaking him for a woman, no pretending that the body over him could belong to anything other than a hardened sailor. It was sinful, immoral, a stain on his otherwise God honoring-life, and it curled his toes pathetically.

James’ eyes fluttered closed again and he gave himself over to sensation, the tug and slack of the pirate’s hand and the warmth that pooled in his clenching gut. He kept his lips pressed tightly together and listened to the sound of his own breath coming fast through his nostrils, to the sounds of skin slipping on skin between his legs, and to the sounds of the waves lapping at the shore outside the cabin window. 

Without warning the hand suddenly vanished, and James' eyes flew open. The top of Sparrow’s head had ducked between James’ parted legs and the pirate was a breath away from sucking him into his mouth. 

“ _Don’t._ ” James ordered. “Not that.”

Sparrow raised an eyebrow but otherwise ignored his request, and James threw back his head and groaned as the wet heat of Sparrow’s mouth engulfed him in one smooth motion. Sparrow’s stubbled cheek scratched against the top of James’ thigh, but the inside of his mouth was soft, pliant, and swallowed him down whole. James screwed his eyes shut so as not to see the bobbing of his matted head. 

“P-...lease,” James hissed, and he brought his hands up to Sparrow’s shoulders and pushed. His skin was hot, so hot, as though he’d been baking in the sun for hours. He transferred his grip to Jack’s head instead and sunk his fingers into the tangle of hair.

“Mind the beads,” Sparrow huffed, and his voice was a quiet thing, a soft buzz across the skin. James could feel the beads under his hands, little pieces of every shape and size, and he resisted the urge to tug, fingering them instead with great care for the distraction they offered. Jack’s tongue was fat and lolled out of his mouth, and after a long, slow lick he dipped his head and took James back in until his lips just brushed the thick curls of hair at his base. There he held until James’ legs started to jerk.

After a long minute, during which James wrestled with himself about how to warn the pirate of his impending release, Jack surfaced. James let out a deep, heavy moan, only to cram his fist in his mouth the next second. 

“Uncover your mouth,” Jack demanded, stroking the underside of James’ prick with his flat, pink tongue. “If I’m to suck you, I damn well want to hear how you feel about it.” 

James gave him a disbelieving look and took a few steadying breaths before muttering darkly, “And if someone hears?” 

Jack snorted. “What do you have to worry about? It’s your cock in my mouth,” he said, and he put it in again.

A fair point. James knew what it was to be a leader, the importance of appearing invulnerable to your men. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the repercussions of being found in such a position as this, knelt in servitude between the legs of another man. Which begged the question, why was it Jack in this position and not the other way around? He had spoken earlier of reciprocation. Was James to understand that he would be expected to return the favor? The thought quickened James' heartbeat. 

“Do you expect me to…?” James trailed off and gestured vaguely toward the pirate’s lower half. 

Jack looked up at him, and the edges of his eyes crinkled as though with a smile. With a final slow glide of his tongue, he let James’ prick slip out from between his reddened lips and sat up. On his knees, Jack cocked his hips, and James got more than an eyeful of what hung heavy and thick between his legs. “You offerin’?” 

James shook his head quickly. 

“Thought not.” Jack said. James breathed a sigh of relief and shifted unconsciously, widening his legs to allow Sparrow room to resume his position between them. Instead Jack shuffled forward to settle his weight heavily atop James’ thighs -- riding St. George, he’d heard it called, when a woman faced a man and took her pleasure on his lap. James watched Jack’s progress warily but said nothing as he situated himself as close to James as he possibly could, bracing an arm on the mattress so as not to topple over. “It’d help me a bit if you could sit up, mate,” Jack grunted. 

James did as he was bidden, and his hands moved automatically to brace Jack’s wobbling hips as he pressed their groins together. They were boney, narrow, and James took one long look at the size of him and knew it wouldn’t work. He’d split the man in half, no doubt about it, and that was if Sparrow could sink down on him in the first place.

“It won't work,” James hedged. “If you're intending to do what I think you are. I won't fit inside you.”

Jack smirked at him. “Be it that you are concerned for my pleasure after all?” 

“I find myself more concerned for your pain.” James said brusquely, and he looked Sparrow hard in the eye. On this he would not budge.

“Then it’s a good thing I don’t intend to let you fuck me,” Jack pronounced, though he looked as though he only half meant it. James felt a curious mixture of relief and regret, and wondered if Jack’s intent would have been the same if James had stayed silent on the matter. He’d certainly set himself in the right position for it, James thought, though the purpose of the revised position became suddenly clear as Jack spat in his hand and brought their pricks together in a firm, slick grip. 

James' answering groan was loud and unrestrained.

“Aye, that’s it,” Jack encouraged, and he squeezed his fist. “You shy son of a bitch, listen to you now, carrying on like a regular Miss Molly.” James wished he could squeeze his ears shut as well as his eyes, but he couldn’t force himself to look away from where they were joined between Jack’s rough fingers anymore than he could block out Jack's voice. “You said to go about seein’ a whore, but I seem to have found one right here.” 

“Stop,” James grit out, and he leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Stop talking.”

“I won’t,” Jack said. “Not when it’s got you leaking like that. There, you see what I mean?” 

James could no more control the pulsing of his prick than Jack could the sordid words that dripped crude and hot from his devil’s tongue. James focused on silencing himself, chewing on the inside of his cheek so as to keep the noises deep in his throat. He could hear his own harsh, disjointed breathing, coming fast and whistling through flared nostrils, and the rougher, guttural groans Jack made as he thrust his cock back and forth through his fist. Jack was solid and hard against him, a damn near even match in size, and James found himself battling the urge to reach out and touch them both, to replace Jack's warm hand with his own. In the end he couldn't bring himself to do it, to let go of Jack's rolling waist to still the merciful hand that stroked and tugged him nearer towards release. 

“I -- “ James choked out, and Jack’s hand tensed, stroked faster. “Sparrow, please --”

He could see Jack’s belly tensing rhythmically, rippling the tattooed skin as he neared his edge. James was panting, and his open mouth was dry as Jack's fingers squeezed and stroked and teased their swollen pricks.

“What do you need? Go on, say it,” Jack growled out. James was gasping now, and snapping his hips up into Jack’s hand, jostling their entwined bodies on the mattress. His fingers ground and kneaded into the flesh of Jack’s waist, and curled deep into the sliver of a long healed scar. “Say it!” 

“I can’t,” James rasped, and he smashed their mouths together, slipped his dry and sluggish tongue between Jack’s fattened lips. He could taste himself in Jack’s saliva, the sweat and salt of it, and the blood-like metal of his golden teeth. Jack bit his tongue, bit his lips, sucked them hard and long, and within seconds James was coming, spilling hot and wet and slippery against their heaving bellies. It seeped between Jack’s knuckles, coated his palm and eased the friction, and seconds later Jack arrived at his own release with a strangled sound in the back of his throat. James tore out of the kiss to watch him, eyes raking from the captain’s pulled face to his twitching, dripping prick and back again in stunned silence. He couldn’t tell whose fluid belonged to who, whether the smear on his stomach and thigh was from he or Jack, or more likely both, but it didn’t matter, it was all the same. 

James could barely stay upright. Panting with exertion, he circled his arms hard around Jack’s torso before dropping back onto the bed with a great exhale. Jack rolled with him, stayed on top of him, and ground his hips over and over into his trembling fist until he was spent. And then he too, collapsed, and rolled off James and onto his side. 

James stared unblinking at the ceiling, which swirled and turned in his suffering vision, more violent than in any storm. It gradually settled, as did his heaving chest, and in slow minutes his breath returned to a normal pace and James was able to blink the stinging sweat from his eyes. Inches from him, Jack was recovering quickly and had begun dabbing at the wetted skin of his groin with the bedsheet. 

Jack. 

Shame burned sudden and unbidden under James’ skin, in his lungs, in the palms of his tingling hands as the reality of the evening sunk in. How had this happened? Why had this happened? James had never before felt an attraction to the man, pure or impure, and yet his firm touch had brought him to climax only moments ago. It was nonsensical, unbelievable, and yet the evidence lay cold and drying on his stomach, and still images of the encounter played back in his mind's eye; Sparrow's ratty head between his legs, Sparrow kneeling before him with his cock out, Sparrow's panting, reddened face as he too spilled his seed between their bodies. The images were clear and sharp, and James suddenly remembered that he'd been relying on his addled mind to forget the encounter, to force it like a bad dream from his consciousness. 

That seemed highly unlikely now, though even if James was lucky enough not to remember on the morrow, these memories would be permanent for Jack -- the only witness, the only participant in his greatest transgression. He could not possibly have fallen into bed with a worse person. How lust and drink could change a man, cloud his judgement, make it seem as though repercussions were insignificant, or non-existent for that matter. James hadn't even considered the aftermath of this night, and was now forced to imagine his life on board the Pearl having fornicated with her captain. How would Sparrow speak to him, look at him, treat him, now that he'd seen him this way -- naked, vulnerable, responsive to his kiss and touch? 

A fresh corner of the sheet landed on his stomach, and James used it to mop up the best he could. When he’d finished he left it over himself and allowed his hands to fall dead to his sides. 

Jack was looking at him, waiting to speak. “Haven’t gone mute on me again, have you?”

James found himself incapable of meeting the man’s eye. There was nothing to say, and so he said nothing. 

“I’ve seen that look before, you know. On doxy girls what are younger, less experienced. Give ‘em a good rogering and they get awful gloomy.” Jack propped himself up on an elbow, and his smile was thin. “Thought us blokes were immune to it, but God if you don’t look like I’ve just snuffed your candle right out. Tell me. Was this your maiden voyage?”

James shot him a sharp look.

“Ah.” Jack said, and he tapped his nose and tried very hard to look serious. “In that case, I’m honored.” 

James did not care enough to correct him. Whatever reputation he’d built up serving under Sparrow had bottomed out the instant their lips touched. Jack stared at him for a minute longer and then let his elbow drop, collapsing backwards in a dramatic puff of air. 

“You sure know how to ruin a moment.” 

James shifted and asked quietly, “Do you want me to go?”

“Nah,” Jack grumbled, and he rolled over to face away from James. 

“Won’t anyone be suspicious if I appear to have slept in the captain’s cabin?” 

Jack shrugged the shoulder he wasn't laying on and said, “Doubt it.”

Certainly things operated differently on pirate vessels than on Navy ships, but the notion that the captain had spent the night with a man in his cabin had to at least turn some heads. Jack’s lack of concern was puzzling, and James found himself wondering if Jack made it a habit to invite men to stay in his rooms. Thinking back on his stay aboard the Pearl, the only man James could recall having seen leave the captain’s cabin was Gibbs, and somehow he didn’t think there was anything there. Perhaps in the past, then.

The thought was far from reassuring. “I ought to go,” James said. 

Jack shushed him and clapped a pillow over his head. “I don’t care what you do, mate,” he mumbled into the sheets. “Just shut your bilge so I can sleep.”

James pursed his lips and stayed silent, hesitating over the decision. He remembered his reason now, the shoddy one he'd come up with to rationalize the encounter; get close to Sparrow and steal his secrets. On the one hand James had places to be, letters to write and deliver, but on the other, staying in the captain’s cabin while Jack slept presented unfounded opportunity for research. Map scrolls and sheafs of parchment littered the broad wooden desk only a few yards away. Chances were some of them had to be pertinent to James' mission, and worth at least a passing glance. 

This had been his intention, to gain access to Sparrow’s private records, to uncover information otherwise unobtainable. This, James realized as the pirate gave a heavy snore beside him, was the opportune moment. 

James dressed carefully, quietly, and left the room untouched. 

The little village was sleeping when James took to it late that night. Trinidad was not a British colony, and was therefore not nearly as well kept as Port Royal or some of the other Caribbean islands. The street lanterns were few and far between as James walked unhurried to the postman’s door, but the moon was three-quarters, and in time James' eyes adjusted to the soft white light. There were no loose stones waiting for him as he trod the path this time, and when he arrived outside the postman's residence an open slot in the door waited to accept his revised message regarding Barbados. 

At dawn the Pearl set sail, and for the first time in a year James remained on shore and watched her go, a dark speck on the pink and gold horizon.


	2. Chapter 2

Six weeks after Norrington’s return to Port Royal, the Black Pearl was sighted off the coast of Martinique. She was boarded by the HMS Endeavour, and after several hours of casualties on both sides the Navy retreated to lick her wounds with the pirate captain Jack Sparrow and a handful of other prisoners in tow. The Black Pearl was left irreparably damaged, with a skeleton crew of injured men pulling desperately for the closest shore. On the return journey to Port Royal, three of the five prisoners expired from their wounds, leaving Mr Sparrow and an unnamed sailor the sole survivors.

This was the story according to the reports that landed on James Norrington’s desk, along with the courrier’s congratulations. By the captain’s estimate, the Endeavour’s arrival in Port Royal would take place three weeks from the date of post, a timeframe that left James little more than forty-eight hours to prepare for her reception. 

While that seemed like short notice, on some level Norrington was grateful that the report forewarning the Endeavour’s arrival had beat her there at all. On a more sour note, there was a great deal to be done and very little daylight left by which to do it. Norrington had barely replaced the letter in its envelope before he started handing out orders, assigning responsibilities where he could and shouldering burdens where he couldn’t. A list of damages had been included in the report, and James whiled away the afternoon tallying expenses and compiling a list of spare inventory that could be drafted into the ship’s refitting. The Endeavour was down four guns, a longboat and her spanker, and James noted not for the first time that Jack Sparrow was an expensive adversary. 

The sun was close to setting by the time James finally emerged from the fort, and Port Royal was bursting with activity. The majority of the colonizers had adopted the Spanish habit of an afternoon _siesta_ , and were only just waking to resume their work. James had been gone two years, but in many ways it felt as though he had never left his former life in the village.

James returned to work at the fort six days a week, and on the seventh could be found in church along with the rest of Port Royal. No one had moved into his townhouse during his absence, and after a bit of dusting and polishing the home was ready for habitation once more. Norrington’s former staff had all found other positions in town, but he managed to hire a cook and maid whose services were adequate, and each night James gazed up at the same ceiling he’d been sleeping under since his arrival in Jamaica ten years prior. The only notable difference James could think of between his new and old lives was the absence of Miss Swann, who had left for London a number of months ago.

Weatherby Swann was soon to follow. There was to be a farewell dinner at the governor’s mansion that evening, for early on the morrow he would depart for England, where Elizabeth Turner and her husband awaited him along with an unborn grandchild. It was for this engagement that James left his office at the fort and returned home, where he exchanged his officer’s uniform for attire more fitting of the event. Thanks to the untimely arrival of the Endeavour’s report, James arrived slightly later than fashionable to the party and was shown immediately to the dining room.

The night passed quickly. Swann had taken it upon himself to introduce James to a handful of Elizabeth’s most eligible friends upon his return, and had asked him to pick one as his date for the evening. James had selected Charlotte, a sweet girl who was more than capable of carrying on a conversation for them both. She proved useful throughout the meal, and answered questions that were directed at Norrington on his behalf. _Oh, yes, he’s quite busy now with the new promotion, I daresay you all see him more than I do. Of course he’s enjoyed the roast, look at his plate, he’s practically licked it clean._

James hardly noticed the food as he inhaled it, but Swann seemed to appreciate his enthusiasm for the meal and so he took seconds, and a generous helping of pudding for dessert. After dinner, the women retired to the drawing room and the snuff box was passed around for the men. Without Charlotte there to speak for him James participated in the conversation, until after what seemed like hours they were able to rejoin the ladies for tea. Charlotte fixed the tea that was laid beside his elbow, and James remembered to thank her before draining the scalding hot liquid in one go. 

“You know, I’ve a theory about the admiralship,” Swann commented as James started on his second cup. “So much responsibility requires a lot of energy to go along with it. It’s not any wonder that the last two admirals I’ve seen pass through Port Royal have had a waistline to match their appetite.”

The guests laughed, and James smiled grimly. “That hardly comes as a surprise, considering I do a great deal more sitting than sailing these days,” he returned.

Charlotte sidled closer to him on the chintz loveseat and said, “All he needs now is a good wife to fatten him up.”

Eating had seemed a good distraction at the time, an occupation for his nervous hands and grinding teeth. James suddenly found he’d lost his taste for the over-sweet tea, and replaced the cup in its saucer on the side table. 

The topic changed. Charlotte was intent on the conversation, and James’ thoughts drifted inevitably toward the Endeavour and her human cargo. Since his return and subsequent promotion, Norrington had spent the majority of his waking hours absorbed in his work, leaving very little time and energy to dwell on anything else. It seemed prudent to brush aside the past two years of his life, to gloss over them like an unfortunate accident or a dream, and in many ways his experiences on board the Black Pearl had begun to feel like false memories, repressed and intangible compared to the solid consistency of Port Royal. But now, with the Endeavour’s arrival came Jack Sparrow, the only man who could possibly ruin the life that he was trying to rebuild, who had been the one to ruin it in the first place. Should Sparrow somehow recognize him it would be hard to deny the truths he could tell, the details James fought night and day to ignore. The thievery and the carousing and the many, many innocent lives that had been lost to the Black Pearl, along with other things, personal sins that James was deeply ashamed of. 

As the first few guests started to depart James leaned in to ask whether Charlotte was finished with her tea. She responded by taking a long sip, and James took that to mean she was willing to leave if he was. He stood to bid Swann a good night, but before he could the governor was motioning him toward his study. 

“If you’ll come with me for just a moment, Admiral, I’ve something to show you.” 

James excused himself from the company and followed Swann toward the study, a room he’d been in a handful of times before when he’d been courting Elizabeth. If memory served, this was the room in which he’d asked the governor for permission to propose over three years ago. Swann closed the door behind them once they were alone in the room, and from the bottom drawer of his desk removed a stack of envelopes. James took them automatically as the governor pressed them into his hands. 

“Letters,” he explained. “From Elizabeth. I would have forgotten about them if I hadn’t received one this morning.” James glanced at the envelope at the top of the stack and saw his own name in Elizabeth’s neat hand. “I wasn’t sure whether to forward them to you during your assignment,” Swann continued, and he smiled guiltily. “I thought keeping them here for you might be best.”

That had to mean the letters were written recently, well after Elizabeth’s marriage to William Turner. It was hardly proper to correspond with a married woman, but James had to remind himself that the letters were solely one-sided, and if anyone should be embarrassed under these circumstances it was Governor Swann. How very like Elizabeth, to ignore etiquette in favor of her own stubborn desires. James said, “I appreciate the consideration. It’s likely they would never have found me.” And if they had, he wouldn’t have been able to keep them. Not aboard the Black Pearl. 

The governor sighed in apparent relief and motioned toward James’ overcoat. “I’d tuck those away, if I were you. Wouldn’t want your lady friend to get any ideas.” 

James slid the stack into the breast pocket of his jacket. “Mrs Turner is a dear friend, Governor. I look forward to reading all about her marriage and her experiences in London. She was only a girl when we left, so I imagine it is an unfamiliar place to her now.” 

“I’m sure you’re quite right,” Swann said, and he motioned towards the door they’d entered. At the threshold they exchanged a warm handshake, and James said, “Safe travels, Governor.”

Swann clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Take care of yourself." 

As he stepped back into the sitting room Charlotte stood and bid the other guests good night for the both of them. James helped her into her coat and offered his arm for the walk toward the carriages, which she took gladly. Once inside, she kept her hand in the elbow crease of his jacket and gushed about the dinner, and about her excitement for Elizabeth and the apparent joys of marriage and motherhood. James walked her to the door of her home and politely kissed her cheek, all the while cognizant of her hand on his chest and its close proximity to the bulging stack of envelopes he’d secreted away. 

The moon was directly overhead by the time James arrived home. He could see it clearly from the window of his bedroom, where he changed from coat to banyan before relocating to the office with Elizabeth’s letters in hand. At the desk, he stared at them for a long while, varying shapes and shades and thicknesses in a neat, ribbon tied stack. He counted sixteen letters, an average of one every six weeks or so, but upon rifling through them he found the dates irregular, more old than new. James set aside all but the newest envelope and eased the seal with his paper knife. He held the single sheet of parchment under the candle and read.

The letter was short and somewhat rude, and perfectly Elizabeth. As he’d expected she wrote of London, and how the city seemed unfamiliar despite the memories of her youth. She was frustrated with Turner, who had so far picked nothing but ugly, unfashionable names for their unborn baby, the favorite of which was Eunice. And she wrote that she was staying in England, at least until the infant had grown a few years and was sturdy enough to take to sea. In her parting line, she urged James to write to her, and to visit should he ever find himself in London. 

James replaced the parchment in its envelope and set it on top of the stack. Whatever emotion he was feeling did not readily have a name. On the one hand he wanted to toss the remaining letters unopened into the fire, while on the other he wished to devour them, tear each one open and stay awake till dawn reading the words Elizabeth had written specifically for him. 

To do so would hardly be appropriate. Despite her behavior to the contrary, Elizabeth was a married woman now, and whatever correspondence it was that she sought from James was likely to be platonic in nature. To her, these letters were simple pleasantries between old friends, and James willed himself to interpret them that way, to ignore the pitiful stirrings of forgotten warmth in his heart, warmth that he wished he could direct elsewhere, toward a woman with the capacity to reciprocate. James pictured Charlotte, sweet and clever, and felt frustratingly empty. He'd kissed the woman not an hour ago, and the feeling hadn't even come close to that which he felt now, clutching Elizabeth's letter in hand. James wondered bitterly how he was supposed to fall out of love with a woman who would not give him the chance, and it was with this thought that he shut the rest of the letters unopened in the desk drawer and retired for the night. 

The next morning, James arrived in his office to news of the Endeavour. She was making excellent time, and a courier relayed that she would likely dock before nightfall. James hastened two cells to be made ready in the prison, assigned double guard duties in shifts of four, and after rereading the Endeavour’s report requested that Port Royal’s doctor be made available if needed. He hesitated over whether or not to ready the executioner for the following morning. Though the courier had sounded certain of the Endeavour’s imminent arrival, Caribbean winds could be fickle, as were final headcounts. There was no sense in arranging for two nooses if the pirates had succumbed to their injuries on the voyage over, and so James postponed the task for the time being. 

The day passed in a blur of orders and status reports, problems and solutions, and yet James found time to look out the window toward the docks, waiting for the dot on the horizon that carried Jack Sparrow and guest, whoever that unnamed crew member might be. Another nameless, faceless pirate in an ocean full of them.

Except that he wouldn’t be. 

James realized with a jolt that this anonymous pirate would likely be a crew member that he had known, that he had worked alongside before his return to Port Royal. If James was able to recognize him, certainly it stood to reason that he would in turn be recognized. The thought was worrying, until he remembered that he was no longer a spy, and that being recognized as an infiltrator by a soon to be executed pirate was of little concern to Admiral James Norrington. 

Being recognized by Jack Sparrow, on the other hand, was a possibility more worthy of the sweat on his brow. Though he had shaved his beard and donned his wig upon return to Port Royal, he couldn’t untan his skin or smooth away the crow’s feet the sun had cracked into the corners of his eyes. 

James leaned his forehead against the window overlooking the docks and tried to think clearly. Sparrow had not recognized him on board the Black Pearl, of that he was certain. The plain sailor’s clothes, the brown hair and beard, those were the things he would remember about his missing deckhand. As for the former commodore, the wig and uniform were hallmark Navy traits, and he doubted whether the pirate saw little more than those features when they’d met in uniform briefly in the past. With any luck, Sparrow’s eyes would slide right over him, just as they had the day James had signed on to crew the Pearl. 

There was a smudge on the horizon, an hour out from the docks. The sun had begun to set, signaling the end of the working day, but James remained beside the window and pensively watched the ship’s approach. The wind was good, and soon the prow of the Endeavour sliced a line through the water close to the docks. 

The crew laid anchor and began furling the sails. It was a long while before the prisoners were brought above deck. Hooded and chained in irons, one man was carried and the other shoved at gunpoint off the gangplank and toward the direction of the prison cells. James was unable to discern their identities through the distance, but it was enough to know they had both arrived, and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief that fogged the glass of the window. 

It was twilight, and the lanterns were being lit as Norrington walked the short distance from the fort to his home. He wavered over whether or not to open another of Elizabeth's letters that night, and ultimately decided to wait. Sparrow's arrival already weighed heavily on his mind, and the last thing he needed was to add his sorry excuse for a personal life to his list of mental burdens. 

The next morning he arrived early to the fort. Lieutenant Groves met him outside the door to his office, and James invited him inside.

“Status report?”

“The prisoners arrived shortly before nightfall yesterday evening, Sir. One of the men bears the tattoo of the sparrow on his forearm, though he insists that he was press ganged into servitude. He claims that Jack Sparrow has taken to marking all of his men with the tattoo of his namesake.”

“I see. And did the other man have the tattoo as well?

“No, Sir.”

“Curious” Norrington said, sitting down heavily behind his desk. “It’s almost as if he were lying. What’s he calling himself?”

“Jonah.”

James rolled his eyes. “Of course he is. Well, no matter. You’ve seen Sparrow before, Groves. Is it him?” 

The lieutenant hesitated and seemed to deliberate over his answer. “I cannot be sure, Sir. It has been several years since I last saw Jack Sparrow. His appearance would be quite changed.”

James leaned forward and pressed his fingertips together. Unlike Groves, he had seen Sparrow recently, and had found him remarkably well preserved. “In what way do you mean?”

“The Endeavor did quite a number on him, Sir. I suggest you see for yourself.”

James raised his eyebrows as the words sunk in. Jack Sparrow was an inherently recognizable character, and he could scarcely imagine what sort of maiming it must have taken to strip him of that quality. Judging by the look on Groves’ face it must have been fairly severe, and James wavered over whether or not to ask for specifics before deciding he’d rather see for himself as suggested.

“Very well. Dismissed,” Norrington said, and Groves saw himself out. 

There were a handful of tasks to be completed before James could leave his office, and he accomplished them quickly and methodically, forcing all of his concentration into their execution. By the time he stood outside the entrance to the Port Royal prison the sun was high overhead, and he was sweating in his blues. He nodded to the pair of guards on duty, who were miraculously awake to salute him when he entered. 

“At ease, gentlemen,” he said, and they relaxed. 

Norrington marched past them down the staircase and along the corridor that led to the handful of occupied prison cells. He had instructed the two prisoners be kept separately, and was pleased to find one body in the first cell, lying on its side and facing the wall. 

Not Jack Sparrow. The hair was too short and the body too skinny. He moved along and glanced into the other cells, most of them empty or occupied by men James recognized. He reached the final chamber, where a man sat propped against the corner wall, head lolled back and eyes closed. 

Also not Jack Sparrow. 

James blinked in confusion and peered closer at the man’s sleeping face. Fair complexion covered by hundreds of congealed freckles, and long, ratty red hair. He recognized the man from the Pearl, a crew member called Dunnet. 

James doubled back and looked closely at the face of each man in every prison cell he passed until he returned to the first one, where the skinny man slept on his side. His shirt was torn white linen, and his britches a muddy, frayed brown. His feet were bare and black soled, dark like the closely cropped hair on his head. 

“Jack Sparrow?” James said. The body didn’t move, and so he repeated himself louder, in a tone more befitting of his admiralship. “Mr Sparrow. Rise.”

There was a rustle of fabric across the dirt floor, and the man sat up and turned slowly to face him. James inhaled sharply, and the sound whistled in the otherwise quiet space as he caught sight of the prisoner’s face. 

The skin was taut and badly swollen, blue and purple and black. A large diagonal gash stretched like a chasm from the corner of his left eye socket to the edge of his downturned mouth, splitting the bridge of his nose and separating his upper lip into two segments. Puss and fluid wept from the open wound and trickled down his unshaven cheeks to dry in a beard crusted with blood and gore. His left eye was bulging and swollen behind a thin eyelid, but the right eye was dark and unharmed, and it was this eye that James concentrated on as he made his determination. 

The man was Jack Sparrow, though little remained of his tell-tale costume. Gone were the kohl smudged eyes, the half-dozen rings, and the hair ornaments. Someone had shorn the matted locks off his head, leaving uneven sprigs of dark brown hair curling out in all directions, shorter even than James’ own freshly cut hair. The linen shirt hung in tatters off his shoulders and exposed the over-protruding bones of his collar, the tell tale sign of a man in danger of starvation. 

James had seen Sparrow undressed, stripped to his very skin, and yet he hadn’t seemed half as naked then as he did now. 

“What’s that?” Jack rasped, as though he hadn't had a drink of water in weeks. “You want me to rise?” He reached a hand out and grasped the top of his pant leg, yanking hard on the fabric. His leg lifted and dropped, dead weight front and center, and James saw a thick, purple ankle sticking out from the bottom of the brown material. Jack started to hoist himself to his feet. “As my Lord commands.” 

“Disregard that order, Sparrow,” James barked, but Jack ignored him, leaning heavily on his good side until he stood at full height. He leaned the entirety of his weight on the one foot and let the other dangle uselessly. James resisted the urge to recoil as Jack began hopping slowly closer toward the edge of the cell. 

He smelled sick, an unholy combination of sweat and shit and vomit. Sparrow leaned heavily against the bars, and they rattled as his body seized with a teeth-chattering tremor. 

“You’re ill,” James said.

Of course he would be. He’d been shut up in the bilge of the Endeavour for weeks, undoubtedly crouching in stagnant water and human waste. 

Sparrow labored a shrug and looked at him with unfocused eyes. “I’ve seen worse. The Navy ain’t what it used to be, you know. Gotten soft.”

James pressed his lips together and tried to determine whether Sparrow meant he had merely seen worse injuries on another or experienced them himself. He had to mean the former, since surely no man could survive worse than this and live to tell the tale.

How he had made it this long without treatment was a miracle in and of itself, yet James had a feeling that he was not but a skip hop and a jump from death’s door. He had ordered the village doctor on standby, though that had been little more than a formality in the event that Sparrow or his companion had been shot or stabbed as they were escorted to their cells. Treatments for disease and illness were not a luxury afforded to pirates fated to the gallows, and so the physician had not been alerted, per James’ orders. The thought was not pleasant.

“What ails you?” James demanded, stepping closer to the bars and raking his eyes from head to toe down Jack's body. 

The pirate's split lip spread in a horrible smile. “Nothing,” he answered. “I’m in peak form. Never felt better. Though if you really pressed me, I might admit to a bit of hunger.” 

“Surely you must be in pain,” James said, aghast. 

“Pain?” Jack scoffed and thumped his chest. “Not even a little. Truth be told, I’m a bit more worried about the bloke I came in with. Took a knock on the head, he did. Hasn’t woken up since.”

James felt his blood turn to ice as two thoughts clashed for dominance in his mind. Dunnet, someone he had worked alongside, possibly comatose, and Jack’s knee against his thigh as he warned James against the dangers of falling asleep after a head injury. 

James slammed the metaphorical door on that last train of thought and said, “Your concern seems unwarranted. As my lieutenant reports it, the man was a prisoner on board your ship.”

Of course James knew the truth, that Dunnet had been a willing crew member aboard the Pearl. But based on the far away look in Jack’s eyes, he had yet to recognize him, and Norrington was prepared to keep it that way. If that meant feigning ignorance, so be it. 

“Was he? I don’t recall,” Jack murmured dreamily, and he broke their eye contact to examine his nails. 

Or what was left of them. 

“Your hand!” James exclaimed, and he took a step back as his stomach heaved. 

Only the thumb and first finger of Sparrow’s right hand remained. The rest was a pinkish brown mess, soggy, putrid flesh clinging to white bone. 

“What, this?” Jack held the stump out for his inspection, and James couldn’t tear his eyes away. Only the tips of the fingers were pink, the rest a wetted, greenish-grey rot. They twitched as though Jack were attempting to wriggle them, swollen, fat sausages that they were. “Five-to-one. Couldn’t watch my back. Some little whelp, probably the cabin boy, tried to knock the sword out of my hand with his blade. Sent my fingers rolling across the deck. You wouldn’t know it, looking at it now, but it was a clean slice. Weren’t nearly so bad till the rats got to it.” Jack flexed his hand, and the wet skin of his thumb split and oozed. 

James turned his face away to the sound of Jack’s satisfied snickering. He’d seen quite enough. Scoundrel though he might be, there was no justification for undue cruelty, and to allow Sparrow to linger in the cell as his body decayed went beyond deserved punishment. 

“The physician will be here shortly,” James grit out, and he turned and marched up the stairs as Jack’s voice rang in his ears.

“No point, mate. I’m already dead”

The only doctor in Port Royal was loathe to be interrupted during tea. James delivered his summons in person on his return to Fort Charles, and though the man insisted he stay and chat awhile, the urgency of the situation and the admiral’s clear impatience soon sent his servants scattering for the medicine bags. 

Ramsay, as the doctor was called, asked for specifics regarding the condition of the two prisoners, and James provided him with the best descriptions he was able as they waited just inside the foyer. He succeeded in offending the doctor by insisting that he treat the men as any other patients despite their incarceration. Ramsay had sniffed that he’d intended to, and Norrington hadn’t the patience to apologize. As soon as the servants finished loading his supplies into the waiting carriage Ramsay was off, and James watched the wheels of his cart stir up mud and disappear around the corner before resuming his journey to Fort Charles on foot. 

The hours slogged by, and James paced the hardwood floors of his office to the rhythmic sound of clicking heels. A pile of unexamined documents had been placed on his desk, and he alternated between rereading the same few letters and walking the length of his office, unable to concentrate for longer than five minutes at a time. The doctor was due to return with an update as soon as he had seen to the prisoners, and James decided he would wait until then to buckle down lest he risk interruption. He sent away his midday meal and favored a roiling stomach until a knock on his door and an announcement from outside indicated the physician’s presence. 

James sat at his desk and took a steadying breath before calling out, “Come in.” The door opened, and his secretary Mr Sandy ushered the doctor inside. Ramsay took the seat opposite James and fiddled with the handle of his cane without speaking. 

“Well?” James snapped, breaking the silence. 

“They’re in bad shape, Admiral, very bad shape.” The doctor sighed and wagged his head back and forth. “If I could have only seen them straight away something might have been done, but I fear too much time as passed since the attack.”

“You’re saying it’s too late for them?” James asked, narrowing his eyes. 

Ramsay took a deep breath as he chose his next words. “It is difficult to say. Men have died from far less, as I’m sure you’re aware. The one called Jonah -- “

“Jack Sparrow.” James interrupted icily. “That man is the pirate captain Jack Sparrow.”

The doctor waved offhandedly and amended, “Very well. The ah, _conscious one._ His condition is most troublesome. If the infection doesn’t finish him off then I predict he will starve to death, or expire of dehydration.” 

James frowned and said, “I don’t see how, now that he’s arrived in Port Royal. I assure you he has access to both food and water.”

“Certainly, certainly, but the man can keep nothing down. If it doesn’t run straight through him he’ll heave it back up in a minute.”

“Dysentery?” 

“Perhaps.”

James’ mother had lost a child to dysentery before his birth. The condition was lethal enough, though he’d seen older, healthier men survive its effects. Admittedly, Sparrow was a great deal less healthy, and assumably much older than those men had been. “What is there to be done?”

Ramsay stroked his gnarled fingers through his beard. “The natives use a concoction of _kapok_ bark for diseases of the bowel, though I’ve never seen it used successfully. I’d start with a regimen of boiled lime water and broth to keep him hydrated, and I’d consider getting him out of those soiled clothes. Apart from that, there’s not much to be done. As for his other ailments,” The doctor paused a moment and considered. “I was able to re-break his ankle and set it correctly, though he made quite a fuss about it. He claimed it was healing just fine on its own, the fool.” Ramsay laughed at that, and James forced a thin smile to his lips and forcibly ignored Jack’s imagined screaming in his ears. “The wound on his face is quite gruesome, but I believe it is mostly superficial. I took the liberty of stitching that up this afternoon.”

“And what of his hand?” James asked. 

Ramsay settled back and dabbed at his forehead with a small handkerchief pulled from his breast pocket. “I won’t lie to you, the hand worries me. The fingers he’s got left are as good as dead, and the infection has begun tracking towards his heart.” He traced a line from the inside of his wrist and up the sleeve of his coat. James had seen a tracking vein before, though the culprit then had been a spider bite. “If he somehow manages to survive the dysentery, the hand’s going to kill him. His best chance now is an amputation.”

Norrington grimaced. “So he’ll lose his hand?”

“Possibly. Or his arm, depending on the severity of the necrosis. Pardon me for saying so, but he looked about as pleased to hear this as you, Admiral. I might have performed the amputation this afternoon, but he refused. Said he wanted to speak to the commodore first. By that I assume he meant yourself.” James inclined his head, and Ramsay continued. “Should you wish for his survival, I would not wait much longer to amputate.”

James rubbed a hand over his face. The news weighted him like an anchor, but this was neither the time nor place to process his thoughts. 

“What of the unconscious man?” He asked at last. The doctor’s expression turned from contemplative to melancholy. 

“Ah, yes. The quiet one. I’m afraid I have little hope for his recovery, Admiral. As Jack Sparrow told it, he took a blow to the head during battle, lost consciousness in the brig and hasn’t opened his eyes since. I examined the injury, and it’s a miracle he’s managed to hang on as long as he has. The most I can do is keep him comfortable, though that is no small task in a prison cell.” 

Looking at Dunnet, James had figured as much, but hearing it from the doctor’s mouth was a great deal more final. James leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with a hand.

“Tell me, Doctor. How am I supposed to hang an unconscious man?” 

“Lucky for me, Admiral, that is your burden to bare,” Ramsay said. When James failed to respond he continued, “My father was a military man, you know, so I dare say I’m familiar with your kind. Always shouldering too much responsibility, taking things too personally. My sympathies for the future Mrs Norrington.”

James was reminded once again that the civilians of Port Royal had yet to forget his ill-fated engagement. He ignored the urge to shield his left hand from view and instead replied, “Were there no complications, I would hang them on the morrow.”

The doctor tutted. “Pirate or no, there’s no honor in hanging a dead man. And as for the other, I have yet to be convinced this man is indeed Jack Sparrow. He gave quite a convincing argument to the contrary.” 

James looked out blearily from between his fingers. “Let me guess. Running from Nineveh, swallowed by a whale on his way to Tarshish?”

Ramsay laughed so hard he coughed. “Now that would be a tale!” He wheezed from behind his handkerchief. “But I implore you, Admiral, speak to the man before you condemn him. Were the life of an innocent man in my hands, I’d be inclined to hear him out.”

“Forgive me, Doctor, but I would assume in your line of work you’ve seen many innocent lives slip through your fingers,” Norrington pointed out coolly.

Ramsay merely squinted at him as he squared his handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket. “Not for lack of trying,” he said, and James bit his tongue to keep from responding out of turn. 

“Indeed,” James said, and he stood from his chair and extended his hand to end the conversation. The doctor gripped his cane and heaved to his feet, and they shook across the desk. “Thank you for your assistance this afternoon, Dr Ramsay. I’m sure you have other appointments to keep, so I won’t detain you any longer.”

“Not at all, not at all,” Ramsay replied, affable once again. “Always a pleasure to be of service. I’ll check in this time tomorrow. In the meantime, have your men stick to the regimen I’ve suggested, and let me know if you will be requiring that amputation. The sooner the better.” He squeezed Norrington's hand and released it. 

Mr Sandy opened the door and showed the doctor out, and the moment it closed James resumed pacing, pausing only to bar the lock.

In fifteen years of service, James Norrington had never once experienced guilt over the execution of a pirate. His signature had sent well over a hundred men to the gallows, and each name the admiral held in his heart as having been deserving of death. But now, with the fate of two men in his hands -- two men whose guilt he could not be more certain of -- his gut was in knots and his soul was inexplicably weary. 

For Dunnet, the noose was little more than a formality, a blessed escape from the purgatory of perpetual unconsciousness. Jack Sparrow was a different story. James had to stop and lean against the edge of a bookcase as the man’s rotten face bloomed in his mind’s eye, oozing and festering with that single dark eye staring wickedly out from under a heavy brow. Though he hadn’t swung the blade, it had been James’ intel that lead the Endeavour straight to him, and whatever sailor had done the damage had done so only by James’ leave. 

It was unfair that he had survived. Far better for him to have escaped on the Pearl or died during its siege. Not left to molder in a prison cell, waiting for one of several impending and disgraceful deaths. Norrington was half-tempted to ask which method Jack would find the most dignified, though he doubted their answers would be the same when he couldn’t even decide on one himself. 

Certainly James may once have answered the noose. The thought of Sparrow’s execution had sustained him over the years, and perhaps in a way it still did. He’d fantasized often about his capture, the process of besting him in combat and clapping him in irons, marching him into the brig or into a cell and witnessing his execution soon after. James was not sure when or how it happened, but somewhere along the way the fantasy had become more pleasurable than the reality, and now that the crowning moment had arrived he found himself underwhelmed. The achievement was devoid of pride, and instead James felt disgusted, unhappy, and most significantly angry -- angry that Jack had allowed this to happen, that he hadn’t spotted James out the moment he set foot on board his ship. Angry too that he had ignored James’ letter, and angry that he had divulged the Pearl’s true course to James in apparent confidence. But most of all James was furious that Jack Sparrow, legendary pirate, duelist, escapist, had allowed himself to be captured and brought to justice, proving himself no greater, no less mortal than any other man. 

James wondered if their heightened familiarity was not the source of his hesitation, if perhaps he hadn’t spent that year aboard Jack’s ship he would face this decision with greater certainty. But the more James ruminated on the possibility the less plausible it seemed. After all, had he not let the opportunity slip through his fingers not once, but twice during his stint as commodore? For God’s sake, he’d had the man on the bloody platform smack dab in the middle of the parade and still elected to give him one day’s head start, a decision that had cost James his career. What would be enough this time? A royal pardon? A letter of marque? The complete and utter destruction of James’ painstakingly rebuilt reputation?

In one quick motion James strode from the window to his desk and swept his arm across it, scattering the documents and paper weights and inkwell with a roar of frustration. The inkwell shattered with a tinkle of breaking glass, and loose parchment fluttered to the floor like dozens of yellow feathers. James breathed hard through his nose and waited until each and every one had settled before stooping to gather them into his arms. Mr Sandy’s voice traveled under the door to reach him. 

“Everything alright in there, Sir?”

“Fine. An accident,” Norrington said, straining to keep his voice even.

“May I come in?” 

At his leave, Mr Sandy entered and began to straighten the mess. It was far from James’ proudest moment, though having known the previous admiral he did not doubt Mr Sandy had seen far worse. Nevertheless he felt properly ashamed at his behavior, and excused himself while the secretary restored order to the room. 

James walked along the battlements to clear his head. September meant springtime in the Caribbean, and the weather was warm and dry and perfumed with the scent of tropical flowers. When at last he returned to his office there was no sign of his outburst, save for a brand new bottle of ink to replace the one that had shattered. 

James worked with renewed diligence to address the paperwork he’d neglected, sifting through ledger after ledger of proposed additions to a newly erected fort in the Cayman Islands. The highest ranking officer currently stationed there, a man called Percy, requested supplies and additional men to defend the recently established colony after a series of raids. Admiral Norrington’s presence was also requested, so that he might see for himself the toll the pirate attacks had taken on the fort.

No matter where James turned, piracy never ceased to complicate his life. By the time he had drafted a response to Captain Percy the staff had been in to light the candles, which James extinguished before leaving for the night. 

The following morning Groves and Gillette were stationed outside the door to the admiral’s office, heads together and talking quietly. They broke apart and saluted as soon as they caught sight of him. James let them in wordlessly, and after situating himself behind his desk waved a hand for them to speak.

Gillette squared his shoulders back and started them off. “Sir, we have yet to receive orders for the execution of the pirates off the Black Pearl. Pre-arrangements have been made in the gallows and the executioner is standing by, but no instructions were received. The men and I were wondering if there had been a possible breakdown in the chain of command.” 

Had he the energy, James might have rolled his eyes. “I have yet to issue any orders, Commodore. Stand down.” 

The newly promoted Gillette sucked in his cheeks. “Yes, Sir,” he said. “In that case, what orders give you now?”

James had done his utmost not to think about the prisoners since his outburst. He’d hoped that when the time came he’d know what to do, and have the courage to see it done. The time, apparently, was now, and the words that left Norrington’s mouth were unconnected to his brain.

“For the time being the execution has been postponed. Relieve the executioner,” James heard himself say. Gillette’s cheeks flushed, but Groves’ expression did not change. James directed his next question toward him. 

“Last we spoke, Lieutenant, you expressed doubts as to the identity of our prisoners.”

Groves narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Sir. Having spoken to the prisoner believed to be Jack Sparrow, I was… unconvinced.”

James nodded and turned his attention toward Gillette. “Commodore, have you had the opportunity to question this man?”

“No, Sir,” Gillette said. “But the Endeavour seemed quite certain of his identity when they captured him.”

“Indeed,” James mused. “I, however, am not. And it is my hope that any man in my service would find the idea of putting an innocent Christian to death equally abhorrent.”

“I beg your pardon Sir, but regardless of whether the man is Jack Sparrow, the fact remains that he was found aboard his ship, which would make him both a pirate and a heathen.”

“Too right you are, though from my understanding he has yet to confess to any crime, and neither has his companion. Could it not be that they were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Gillette shifted his weight and acquiesced. “Yes, Sir.”

“And is it not our duty unto God to protect the innocent?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“In that case, I request your presence, Commodore. If you would accompany me, I should be interested in your perspective regarding the true identity of our so-called pirate captain. Lieutenant, you may join us. I trust that both of you have seen enough of Jack Sparrow to recognize the man should he reside within our own prison.” 

James was, by nature, a planner, the type of man who thought ahead. Whatever demon had possessed him to denounce Sparrow’s identity in his office had taken full control over his body now, and it was that same devil who marched resolutely alongside Groves and Gillette toward the prison under the early morning sun. 

The attending guards saluted the trio as they passed, and Norrington took the stairs first, landing on his heels at the bottom and heading straight for the first cell in the line up. Jack’s ragged form sat reclined against one wall, and his posture was limp as though in sleep. His face was wrapped in white linens save for one closed eye, and his ankle was splinted with wax hardened cloth. At the sound of James’ approach, Jack’s head swiveled and his eye blinked open. 

“You again,” he grunted, voice muffled almost unintelligibly through the cloth. He seemed to register the sound of other footfalls and his eye flicked rapidly around the corridor, trying to locate the men attached to them. Groves and Gillette assumed their positions on either side of Norrington and Jack sniffed. “Quite the entourage.”

The moment of truth was upon them, and James had less of an idea what he was doing now than he had ten minutes ago. He cleared his throat before speaking and prayed that whatever came out would be even halfway coherent. 

“Mr Jonah. You have been taken into custody under the assumption that your true identity is that of Jack Sparrow, pirate captain of the Black Pearl. All that remains is for you to confess. I say to thee, name yourself so that we might put this doubt to rest.” 

Jack blinked his one eye and said nothing. James looked directly into it as he tried again, as though he could convey the meaning behind his ambiguity through gaze alone.

”Did they cut off your tongue as well as your hand? Speak, prisoner. You will not be given another chance.” 

Jack’s eye narrowed, and it was as though James could see the wheels turning in his head. “Aye,” he mumbled through the bandages. “I hear ye. Me name be Jonah, Sir.”

“Last name?” James barked. 

“Just Jonah. I’ve no last name of me own.” 

“Mr Jonah, then. You were taken prisoner on board the Black Pearl, commanded by the pirate Jack Sparrow. You served under him. Do you deny this?”

“No, Sir. I merely beg your pardon.” Somehow Jack managed to look ashamed beneath the bandages. “‘Tis no proper life for an honest sailor, and t’was ne’er my intent. But when tha’ black hearted bastard sunk me ship he gave each man a choice; surrender and enter into servitude, or rest eternal in the locker. If ye’re to convict me of a crime, I say, string me up as a coward. But ne’er as no ruddy pirate.”

The man was a chameleon. Had he not known better, James might have fallen hook line and sinker for the performance. He could only hope that his companions were nearly as susceptible to such trickery, and he held his breath as he waited for their response. 

“What then of the tattoo? The brand?” Gillette spluttered after a moment of silence, and James felt his stomach bottom out. He’d forgotten. The two most telling marks, the dead giveaways, the ones he’d seen up close with his own eyes on more than one occasion. 

“Aye, they be on me, as they be on any o’ the slaves aboard the Pearl,” Jack replied, not missing a beat. “The captain’s way o’ marking his property, I s’pose, or confusin’ honest soldiers like yourselves.” 

Gillette rounded on Norrington. “Is this true?” He demanded.

James glanced back and forth between Jack and the commodore. “I’ve never heard of such a thing on Sparrow’s ship, but there are other captains who brand their crew,” he answered vaguely. 

Gillette snorted. “This sounds like one of Sparrow’s famous cock-and-bull stories.”

James nodded as though he were having a hard time believing it himself. It wasn’t hard to pretend. “What say you, Lieutenant? Do you recognize this man?” James asked.

There was a moment of tense silence, until finally Groves said, “Hard to say, Sir. The bandages make it difficult to tell.”

“I could take ‘em off,” Jack suggested, reaching his shaking uninjured hand toward his face.

“Silence,” James snapped. “What of the tattoo, Lieutenant?”

Groves hesitated. “I too have heard stories of captains branding their crew.”

James nodded thoughtfully in response. Bless Groves for his ignorance, and for his willingness to believe old wives’ tales and stake his career on them. With his story corroborated James turned back to Gillette.

“Commodore?”

Gillette took a measured step toward the bars and peered closely in at the prisoner’s crumpled form. Jack had to have lost at least two stone in the weeks since James had last seen him, and he wondered at how he’d managed to spare any weight at all. Unbidden, James recalled Sparrow’s naked body as he’d seen it his last night on board the Pearl. He’d been lean then too, though more wiry and muscled than he was now, and he’d had something of a pot belly, likely from the sheer ungodly volume of rum he consumed on a daily basis. James squeezed his eyes shut briefly to force away the image, and when he reopened them Gillette was looking at him and frowning.

“I shall need to see him without the bandages, Admiral. Until then I cannot make a decision,” he said. 

James felt the burden of his anxiety lift, though not nearly as much as he’d hoped it would.

“Right you are,” James answered. “In that case, relay the following orders. All men who have verifiably encountered Jack Sparrow are to come forward for questioning. We will compile a list of information on his mannerisms and appearance, and once the prisoner’s face has healed we will perform another inspection. Until then, he and his companion will remain under armed guard at all times. I’m not taking any chances. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Very well. Dismissed.”

Groves and Gillette headed toward the stairwell, and James waited until the sound of their footsteps faded to exhale the breath he'd been holding. His heart was thundering in his ears, and he could feel sweat beaded on his upper lip and brow. He ignored Sparrow's seated figure and strode down the line of cells to the very end where Dunnet lay unconscious, at which point he brought his handkerchief to his face and closed his eyes. What in God's name had he just done? 

“Pssst.” 

The noise sounded more like _‘mpsssh’_ through the bandages, but James recognized the summons. He took a few more moments to gather himself before replacing his handkerchief in his pocket and starting back toward the first cell, where the injured prisoner had somehow managed to scoot himself to the edge of the bars.

“Not overly friendly, that one, is he?” Jack inclined his head toward the stairs. “When I told that doctor I wanted to see the commodore, I hope you know I was meaning you. So it's Admiral, now, is it?” James had to listen very hard to hear him behind the wrappings. “My congratulations. You’ve certainly come out on top of things, _Noah._ ” 

James flinched as Jack leaned back, triumphant. For a split second his heart stopped beating, only to restart at twice its normal speed, sending a wave of adrenaline careening through his veins and with it the urge to fight or flee. James slid down to his knees and leaned in toward the bars to whisper the first sentence he could sink his teeth into.

“How long have you known?” 

Sparrow shrugged, and James could hear the self-satisfied derision in his voice as he answered, “Does it matter?” 

James wasn’t sure if it did. In one breath Jack had revealed his identity as the man formerly known as Commodore Norrington, and his apparently not-so-clever disguise as Noah, half-mute deckhand on Sparrow’s ship. The fact that he had connected those two dots at any point in time made him feel unspeakably ill, though if he were lucky perhaps Sparrow had only just put two-and-two together. Somehow James didn't think he was that lucky, which meant that his last night on board Jack's ship mattered a great deal more than he'd ever thought it had. 

No. Not just that last night, James decided, but every night. Every single night that he had slept below deck on the Black Pearl mattered significantly if its captain knew his true identity. How many opportunities had Jack had to kill him, to jump him in his sleep and slit his throat, or shackle him and throw him overboard? That last evening alone James had been so drunk he'd blacked out and hit his head in the captain's cabin, barely able to hold a drink steady let alone a sword to defend himself with. Sparrow could have ended his life then and there and Norrington would have been powerless to stop him.

“Why let me stay aboard?” James hissed. Jack didn’t respond, and so James reached out and shook the bars of his cell. _“Why?”_

Jack rolled his visible eye. “You ever heard of keeping your enemies close, mate?” he asked. 

James threw up his hands in frustration. “Yes, look how well that’s worked out for you,” he seethed, gesturing at the dirty floor of the cell. “They’re going to take your hand, and that’s if you can avoid the gallows.”

“ _‘If,’_ being the key word, here, mate, since I seem to have found myself an unlikely ally.” Jack leaned closer to the bars. “Though I’ll admit I’m curious. What’s in this for you? Or could it be that you really missed me that much?” 

James gaped and cast around wildly for a response. Though he’d certainly executed his plan, his brain had yet to come up with a rationale for his behavior. “Hanging an invalid is hardly at the top of my priority list,” he said at last.

“Ah, but hanging pirates is. Right, Admiral?” Jack said sweetly. “Come off it, mate. I can’t be the first man you’ve sent to the gallows a bit worse for wear.”

James looked pointedly at the mangled remains of Jack’s hand before answering, “Perhaps not, but I do not intend to make a habit of it. I will not hang an Englishman unable to hold his own head up to take the noose.”

Jack tilted his head from side to side, demonstrating the operation of his neck. “Seems to be working fine to me, mate.”

“Not you,” James whispered. “Dunnet.”

Jack stopped moving and his brow creased. “Not waking up, is he? What did I tell you about those head bumps, Noah? They’re brutal.” 

“Don’t use that name!” James hissed 

“Sorry, your admiralship.” Sparrow blinked slowly up at him, cat-like “It’s just that I thought we’d gotten beyond the formalities. Left our titles and inhibitions at the door, so to speak.”

James stood abruptly, and Jack laughed at him from behind the bandages. That was disgustingly inappropriate. He should have known to expect nothing less than vulgarity from a pirate, but the civilized part of him had hoped that Sparrow might show at least a little discretion under the circumstances. 

"Bite your tongue!" James commanded. 

Jack wiggled closer to the bars and said, "For God's sake, Norrington, you'd think you weren't a bloody sailor."

James ignored him and went to straightening his sleeves, prepared to take his leave of the dank prison and its sick smell. This was hardly proper conversation between two men, and moreover the setting could not have been more grim. The last thing he wanted to be reminded of while looking at Jack's rotting stump was the night they had spent together, an unfortunate event that he had no further desire to speak about save perhaps to a priest. There was only one thing he desired to know, and then he would lay the matter to rest -- indefinitely. 

“Tell me one thing, Sparrow, and then never speak of this again," James said, _sotto voce._ "That night. Did you know who I was?”

Jack’s visible eye closed for a moment, and James swallowed his thumping heart in his throat as he waited for the answer he dreaded, the one he feared to know for sure. When Jack looked at him again there was a gloating darkness in his eye, and he answered in a deep, exultant growl:

“Aye. I knew."

James turned without comment for the stairs, and ascended quickly to the sound of Sparrow's cackle in his ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kindly consider leaving a kudos and comment.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are greatly appreciated, and comments are thirsted for. If you enjoyed reading please let me know in the comments!


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